


Rough Trade

by Saucery



Series: The Sterek Porn Collection [16]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Angst, Barely Legal, Consent Issues, Deceit, Deepthroating, Deputy Stiles Stilinski, Drama, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Financial Issues, Flirting, Gay Bar, Illegal Activities, Jaded Derek, M/M, Non-Canonical Age Difference, Oblivious Stiles, Oral Sex, Orphans, Past Child Abuse, Past Underage Sex, Police, Poverty, Prostitute Derek, Prostitution, Secrets, Seduction, Triggers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-16
Updated: 2014-02-16
Packaged: 2018-01-12 15:24:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1190142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saucery/pseuds/Saucery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek is a barely-legal hooker that accidentally picks up the deputy sheriff, Stiles Stilinski. Stiles, of course, has no idea that it's a hooker who's picked him up...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rough Trade

* * *

 

Derek's been a hooker for a long time. He got into tricking ages ago, as a kid, when the foster system 'failed' him. That was the word the folks in Child Protective Services kept using around him, delicately and infuriatingly, as if they couldn't bring themselves to blame Derek for his failures, so they blamed the system for failing  _him_.

He knows he's a failure, though. If his parents were still alive, they wouldn't forgive him. Maybe they wouldn't even recognize him. Derek isn't certain he recognizes himself. Is he really the boy in ripped jeans that blows random guys in public toilets and lets them fuck him if they pay extra? He sees himself in a cracked restroom mirror and it's as though he's looking at a stranger, dark-haired and dull-eyed, bruises marking his throat where his latest john squeezed it. He doesn't flick his collar up to hide the bruises, because some men like that, the look of something well-used, that  _they_ can also use, anyhow they like.

Derek had been fifteen when he'd started hooking, escaping from his violent douchebag of a foster father and into prostitution. Not that it'd been much of an escape, although it had seemed like it was, initially. Derek still remembers his first client, Kate, and how she'd made him feel like it was more than the sex, that he could stay overnight and kiss her awake in the morning, that he could make her coffee and watch her putter around the kitchen in her bunny slippers and flannel bathrobe. She'd made him feel like he was her boyfriend, not her - her -

But then she'd gotten engaged, and Derek had been out on the streets. Again. He'd spent ages wondering why she'd discarded him, what he'd done wrong, how he'd made her mad, how he'd disappointed her. He'd tried going to her house, but she'd moved to a distant city, and all she'd left him with was an ache within him that never faded, an ice-cold poison that ate away at his heart. He'd stopped taking women as clients, after that. He just… he couldn't stand to be reminded of Kate. And men forked out more, anyway.

Now, three years later, Derek has a cell phone full of clients' numbers and an apartment he shares with three other sex workers - Isaac the cam-boy, Boyd the gigolo and Erica the porn actress - who're his makeshift family. He's turned eighteen, which is great, because he's free of the fucking CPS and the threat of foster care. As an adult, no one can pass him on to a bunch of abusive bastards as their 'son', anymore. He never goes hungry and he only rarely gets hurt, and he even has a gym membership to keep fit, although the only reason he _has_ that membership is because he screws the owner of the gym once or twice a month.

The local gay club, Jungle, is packed with eager johns, and Derek drops by a couple of times a week with his fake ID, charming his way past the vaguely suspicious bouncer and slinking to the bar. Many of the men who frequent the club are savvy as to Derek's profession, but it hasn't leaked through to the bosses who run the establishment, and Derek fervently prays it'll stay that way, because his earnings from Jungle cover most of his bills.

Today, Derek spots his target without any trouble; it's a guy in his early twenties slumped across the bar, just drunk enough to be effortlessly seduced, and he's even sort of… hot. That helps. He's got a buzz-cut and a pair of big hands wrapped around a beer, and while his baggy plaid shirt is the fugliest thing Derek has ever seen, it's draped over an attractively broad pair of shoulders.

When Derek slides onto the barstool next to him and quirks a flirtatious grin, the man blinks at him slowly, his eyes a rich golden-brown, and  _smiles_.

Derek stares at that smile - because it's actually a smile, not a leer or a sneer or a smirk or - or any of the expressions Derek's used to having directed at him, even before he tells people he's a whore. It's an open smile, a  _friendly_ smile, and Derek doesn't know what to do with that.

So he ignores it.

Sure, the man's unnervingly defenseless, but this should be easy money, right?

Right.

Derek flags down the bartender and orders a Blue Moon, sweetening his grin into something more innocent, because he has a hunch that 'experienced cock-sucker with zero scruples' isn't this man's type.

"Hi," Derek says, shuffling his stool a little closer. "Name's Derek."

"Hi, Derek." The guy waves clumsily, nearly knocking over his beer. "Whoops," he says, barely steadying it before it topples. "Um. Haha? Don't mind me, I can never control my extremities. Are entire arms extremities, though? Probably not. Just the fingers, huh?"

And Derek's back to staring. He can't make sense of what he's just heard.

"Whoa, look at me, driving away yet another potential romantic interest with my freakiness. Not that you're a romantic interest! Unless you want to be. But I wouldn't presume! I mean, uh, ignore everything I just said. I'm, er, I'm Stiles. That's my name. Stiles. With an 'i'. Not a 'y'."

Derek is beginning to doubt his own judgment. He's never picked up a john this  _weird_ before. "Stiles," he says, hanging onto his grin by main force. "Nice to meet you."

"Super-duper nice to meet you, too."

"I don't recall seeing you here, before."

"You're a regular?" Stiles nods to himself, as if confirming a personal theory. "'Course you are. You're, like, a total babe. I'm just a loser that doesn't come here unless I get dumped and I need a place to get blind drunk and ogle the rest of the gay population of Beacon Hills and remind myself that there're more fish in the sea. Although you're not a fish, you're more like a… merman. A very pretty, very shiny merman. And I'm the landlubber who can't find his feet." Stiles's smile becomes lopsided and self-deprecating, and he clinks his beer against Derek's newly-arrived glass. "Cheers."

Oh, no. Stiles is one of  _those_ guys, tangled up in heartbreak and stupid, pointless emotions, and Derek is going to have to counsel him, like a goddamn shrink. And Derek doesn't even get to charge as much as shrink. Sighing to himself, Derek asks: "You got dumped? I find that difficult to believe."

Stiles cackles. Literally  _cackles_. "That's - that's hilarious. Listen, pal, if you'd seen my boyfrie - if you'd seen my  _ex_ , you wouldn't be surprised he dumped me. Danny was always outta my league. I'm not… I'm not surprised he… uh. Shit." Stiles clutches the edge of the bar, knuckles whitening, and says, in a voice so ragged it sounds like it's coming out of a paper shredder: "He left me for someone else."

"That sucks," Derek says, pouring all the false sympathy he can muster into his words. "Who'd he leave you for?"

"His b-best friend. Danny and Jackson, BFFs for life. I should've figured it out. I should've _noticed_ , and I guess I kinda did, but I just never paid attention to what was right in front of my face, y'know?"

No, Derek doesn't know, and he doesn't care to know. He's losing patience more quickly than he generally does; it's somehow irritating to hear Stiles blather on about this perfect dream guy.

Time to take action.

Derek leans in and whispers in Stiles's ear: "Forget about him. Just for tonight. Maybe you and I could… go somewhere? Take your mind off the whole mess?"

Stiles gapes at him, jaw hanging open. It's like the world's most ridiculous goldfish impersonation. "Somewhere?" Stiles says, weakly. "Like, um… a diner? To have dinner?"

"No," says Derek, fighting the urge to bang his forehead against the bar. Is Stiles being willfully oblivious, or was he born that thick? "To the alley behind this club. To have sex."

For a few speechless seconds, Stiles appears to have transformed into stone, but then he revives and makes this odd flapping gesture that narrowly avoids knocking his beer over again. "I - I can't do that! You're so... I have to take you out to dinner, first, someplace classy, or maybe just pizza, do you like pizza? Of course you like pizza, _everyone_ likes pizza, but I - "

"Stiles - "

"Are you seriously hitting on me?" Stiles continues, mumbling disbelievingly. " _You_? But I'm this human disaster made of plaid and angst and you're so sexy in that leather jacket and those ass-hugging jeans, not that I've been checking out your ass, because I haven't, not that it isn't worth checking out, but I was just thinking you were an incredibly built angel sent from heaven to distract me from my abject grief, and you couldn't be _real_ , you couldn't be interested, I must be imagining things - "

"Stiles." Derek's tone brooks no argument. "Follow me."

"Okay," Stiles says, dazedly, still looking like somebody dropped a piano on him. Derek grasps Stiles's elbow and guides him to the rear exit, leaving their drinks on the bar. They wind their way through the dancing crowd in the middle of the club, music pounding in their ears, and when they finally make it outside, it's a relief. The alley is dark and the meager moonlight glints dimly off a crate of empty glass bottles, but there's nobody to disturb them.

Derek is in familiar territory once more. This game, he can play. No more rambling conversations about extremities and exes. What's about to happen is just sex. Conveniently profitable sex. Yes, it'll be a nasty shock for a romantic like Stiles when Derek informs him that he owes Derek cash, but Stiles is the kind of john that has to be strung along. Derek has a twinge of remorse, but disregards it.

Pushing Stiles against the alley wall, Derek drops to his knees and immediately reaches for Stiles's zipper.

"This can't be happening," Stiles says. His hands are shaking where they rest on Derek's head. "I've n-never done this before."

"You've never gotten a blowjob?" That Danny fellow must've been a terrible boyfriend.

"No, I've never - never had casual sex, um, or a one-night stand, I suppose, although I hope this won't just be a one-night stand, but I've - I've only ever done this with people I've _dated_ \- "

"Relax," Derek says, slipping his hand into Stiles's underwear. "It isn't that different."

"I think it's different," Stiles murmurs, and cards his fingers carefully through Derek's hair. That carefulness discomfits Derek; he's more accustomed to men yanking on his hair. "You don't have to do this. We could still just grab a bite to eat. Or I could - I could blow you, instead - "

"No," Derek insists, because he needs to get paid. "I _want_ to do this."

To prove his point, Derek pulls Stiles's half-hard dick out of his Y-fronts, and swallows it. From root to tip, without stopping, because after years of sucking men off, Derek doesn't _have_ a gag reflex.

Stiles's hips jerk. He makes this cut-off noise - between a gasp and a groan - and when Derek draws back to lap at the tip of his cock, it swells to a full erection. Feeling uncommonly victorious, Derek glances up at Stiles from under his lashes, knowing that it drives men crazy when he does that.

"Oh, wow," Stiles says, sounding breathless and stunned and overwhelmed. "You're _beautiful_."

And Derek almost chokes, because that's -

That's _ludicrous_.

He digs his nails into Stiles's hip-bones in punishment before he realizes he's meant to be pleasing Stiles, not punishing him, but Stiles is hissing as though he liked it, bucking helplessly before he controls himself.

"S-sorry," Stiles says. He cups Derek's face gently, tracing the damp circle of Derek's lips stretched around his cock before brushing Derek's throat with his thumb, a lingering, exquisitely light touch that makes Derek shiver in spite of himself.

There's something electric about it, something that frightens Derek, because it's an unfamiliar sensation, something he's never felt with a john. While he has occasionally - very occasionally - orgasmed with clients, it's always been mechanical and empty, not pleasurable but mandatory, inflicted on him like a wound, involuntary and unwanted. There definitely hasn't been any sensuality, any arousal, any connection. And it's not like Derek has ever had sex with a non-client, because he's so tired of having sex for work that he doesn't bother having it for leisure. Not that this is leisure. It _isn't_.

Derek growls around Stiles's dick, which gets him another thrust followed by an apology - why does Stiles keep apologizing? - and then Derek's pinning Stiles's hands to the grimy wall, holding them off him as he fucks his mouth on Stiles's cock.

No more unnecessary caresses. This is business. A simple transaction.

Derek sets a brutal pace, taking Stiles bruisingly deep and dizzyingly fast, making gurgling, slurping, obscene noises, spit dribbling down his chin. His lungs burn as they run out of oxygen, but he refuses to pause to inhale, refuses to give Stiles the opportunity to say anything, do anything. It succeeds, because Stiles is soon reduced to a babbling, moaning mess with his legs trembling on either side of Derek, knees threatening to buckle.

They _do_ buckle when Stiles comes, his dick popping out of Derek's mouth and shooting all over Derek's cheeks and neck before Stiles collapses. It's wet and filthy and should be disgusting, but Derek realizes to his horror that he's erect, straining against the denim that confines him. He flinches when Stiles sags forward and starts kissing Derek before they've caught their breaths, sloppy kisses made salty with semen. Derek's erection twitches at the thought that Stiles is tasting himself on Derek's tongue, that Stiles is _cleaning_ Derek, moving from Derek's swollen, stinging lips to lick every cooling splatter on Derek's skin. Derek would like to say he doesn't kiss, period, not for any amount of money, but then Stiles is palming him through his jeans, molding his grip to the shape of Derek's cock, and Derek's denials get jumbled up inside him. He has to put an end to this. This isn't what he does, and he has no idea why he's even permitted this much.

"No," he manages to rasp, eventually, scrabbling upright and shoving Stiles away. " _No_."

"Wh-what? What happened?" Stiles says, clambering up as well.

Just then, a small object clatters onto the ground from the pocket in Stiles's pants, a bright glint of metal, a six-pointed star.

Derek freezes. "That badge - it's - "

Stiles bends to retrieve it and put it back in his pocket. "My deputy's badge, yeah." He smiles sheepishly. "I'm off-duty, but I still carry it with me. Just in case."

"You're a cop," Derek says, numbly.

"Yep. And _you're_ still, um." Stiles nods at the tent in Derek's jeans, although it's fading rapidly. "I can help you with that."

Derek's instincts for self-preservation kick in. He has to continue pretending he isn't what he is. While he's pissed about having wasted a blowjob on a man he can't demand payment from, he's acutely aware that prostitution is illegal, and that a single step out of line will get him arrested. Jail isn't exactly fun for guys like Derek; he'll be nothing but a prison bitch. "I just," he says, swaying slightly, convincingly. "I'm drunk. I don't - I'm not doing too good."

Stiles's eyes widen. "Oh. Oh, god," he says, appalled and guilty. "I'm so sorry. I didn't notice..."

"It's all right." Derek allows himself to be supported by Stiles's arm around his waist. They reenter the club and stagger toward the door. "I... I gotta go home."

"And you will," Stiles says, comfortingly. "Do you - should I call a cab? I'll pay for it," he says, hurriedly, before Derek can state his opinion on the matter. "You may not be sober enough to pay the driver by the time you get there, and I was an asshole to you, so... please. Lemme pay for the cab."

Derek objects with a series of token complaints, but Stiles becomes increasingly stubborn with each objection. Derek is just secretly glad that he's being compensated for his efforts in some way, that at least he won't be spending what remains of his daily budget.

When Stiles hails a cab and bundles Derek into it, he requests Derek's phone number, shyly and hesitantly. Derek deliberately fudges it, switching the 9 with a 6 and the 3 with a 5. He doesn't want a cop on speed-dial, for fuck's sake. Let alone the deputy sheriff.

The apartment seems emptier than usual when he gets there. Boyd's snores can be heard from his room, but Isaac and Erica are absent. The cracked plaster in the hallway and the dusty, flickering bulb in the kitchen are more depressing than they've ever been, and his own bedroom feels like a cage, claustrophobic and strange. He falls onto the mattress and presses his nose into the musty pillow, reflecting on what an utter loss the night has been. As he drifts off to sleep, it's to the dreamlike memory of careful fingers in his hair, touching him like he's precious.

 

* * *

**tbc.**

**Author's Note:**

> Like my writing? Want updates? Check out [my blog](http://saucefactory.tumblr.com/)!


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